


Kiss Me First

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Weddings, groomsmen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 05:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: A snippet of Mycroft and Greg at John and Sherlock's wedding.





	Kiss Me First

**Author's Note:**

> I did it! I finally managed a fic with NO angst! Pure happiness!
> 
> (Originally posted on Tumblr)
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr @savvyblunders

          Tipping back his head, Mycroft exhaled a lazy plume of smoke, watching it dissipate into the still night air. There was a thin edge of frost limning the bare branches of the trees at the edge of the verandah; it had been a clear, dry, cold day, with fitful sun and had turned into an icy night. It could have poured rain or blown a blizzard, for all the happy couple inside would have noticed. He was glad the day had been fair, despite it being the end of January.

          Mycroft stood just outside the French doors leading from the reception hall, in the pale wash of coloured light from the dance floor, smoking a cigarette. Despite countless good intentions he never managed to quit entirely. Still, there were worse habits. He’d just finish this and then back inside he’d go; although the fresh air was invigorating, his tux didn’t lend itself to suitable winter wear, and the faint and pleasant buzz from his champagne was nearly gone.

          The music grew in volume and clarity and a tendril of warmth reached him before the doors closed, “Thought you gave those up.”

          “You know how I am,” Mycroft chuckled, turning to face his friend and fellow groomsman, “Sherlock isn’t the only one with an addictive personality.”

          “Thank God you were never into the hard stuff,” Greg sighed, coming to join him. “Although it’s been five years…the longest he’s ever been sober.”

          “He’s always going to be an addict,” Mycroft said, shifting a bit closer and savoring his friend’s warmth. He was running a bit warmer than usual; must have been on the dance floor with wee Rosamunde again. “But I’ve never seen him so contented, so focused as he has been these last few years.”

          “And now…”

          “Mm,” Mycroft agreed. “I thought you quit?”

          Caught, Greg straightened, leaving off trying to inhale second hand smoke. “Give us a puff?” Instead of waiting for Mycroft to hand him the cigarette, Greg leaned in and captured Mycroft’s wrist between his fingers, holding him still so he could sneak a puff. “Christ, Mike, your fingers are like ice!”

          Words of assurance went unuttered as Greg tucked the fag end between his lips and chafed Mycroft’s hand between his own. His eyes slitted against the smoke, his words slightly muffled from holding the cigarette in, he chided him, “Should have fetched your coat, no need to freeze for the sake of your one-a-day.”

          “Champagne altered my ability to judge the temperature,” Mycroft admitted, smiling slightly. He held up the other hand and Greg tucked the newly warmed one under his arm pit and set about warming his newest prize, effectively trapping Mycroft.

          “Can’t have you dying of pneumonia at John and Sherlock’s wedding.” Greg let the last of the cigarette fall and Mycroft crushed it out. “Ta. It’s a good thing the dancing’s still going strong…We can get you in there and get your blood pumping.”

          When he would have released Mycroft’s hands, Mycroft stopped him by the simple act of threading the fingers of his right hand with Greg’s left, “Perhaps I have everything I need to warm me right here.”

          Greg’s eyes glowed brighter than the disco ball over the dance floor, brighter than the fairy lights scattered among the trees, brighter than the stars shining coldly above them, “Mike…will you dance with me?”

          “Oh yes,” Mycroft answered, smiling down into the face of his best friend, his heart overflowing with happiness now that everything he’d long wanted appeared to be his.

          That million watt smile, so warm and caring and so, so loving, lit up Greg’s handsome face, “And will you drink champagne with me, and share a piece of cake with me?”

          “It would be my pleasure,” Mycroft assured him, sliding greedy fingers inside the French cuff of Greg’s crisp shirt and stroking over his pulse. Greg’s mouth fell open slightly, and warm breath streamed from him as a damp white cloud.

          “Then I want to dance some more–” Greg stroked his cheek, warm palm cupping his jaw.

          Mycroft couldn’t stop smiling, “I’m already planning to request the slowest, most romantic songs they have–”

          “And after we’ve shouted and cheered and thrown rose petals all over the newlyweds, I want to take you upstairs and make slow, slow love to you,” Greg finished, looking at him with naked, honest yearning.

          “I have only one request,” Mycroft offered breathlessly, aching to feel his best friend’s lips on his for the first time.

          “Oh?”

          “Kiss me first.”

          “Gladly,” Greg breathed, bringing Mycroft into the fold of his embrace, strong arms gathering him close, “Anytime.”

          As their lips finally touched, Mycroft let himself melt into Greg, heart singing. It took a moment for him to realize that actual music was playing. They parted, laughing, and Mycroft squeezed him tight, “I think this is our song, don’t you?”

          “Absolutely ours,” Greg agreed, and led him laughing onto the dance floor to the sweet croon of Etta James singing ‘At Last.’

 


End file.
